Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I stood up slowly, bourbon in hand, and approached the door like it might explode. The scratching continued, patient and determined.
Then I heard it: a small, plaintive “Meow.”
I yanked open the door, ready to lecture whatever animal was disturbing my spiral into self-pity, and found myself staring at the most beautiful cat I’d ever seen.
It was pure white, long-haired, and absolutely enormous. Its fur looked freshly groomed despite the fact that it was apparently a stray. And its eyes—one blue, one green—fixed on me with an expression of supreme entitlement.
“Oh no,” I said. “No, no, no. Gladys told me about you. You’re the stray. I’m not supposed to feed you.”
The cat walked past me into the cabin like I’d just invited it to a cocktail party.
“Hey! I didn’t—you can’t just—”
But the cat was already making its way to the kitchen with the confidence of someone who’d done this before. It sat down in front of the refrigerator, wrapped its tail around its paws, and stared at me.
“I’m not feeding you,” I said firmly, closing the door against the cold. “Gladys was very clear. No feeding the stray cat.”
The cat blinked slowly.
“I mean it. You need to leave.”
The cat’s expression didn’t change. Just kept staring with those unsettling heterochromatic eyes that seemed to see straight through all my carefully constructed defenses.
“This is manipulation,” I pointed at it. “I’m an editor, and I know manipulation when I see it.” The cat continued to stareat me. “For God’s sake, I edit romance novels. I’ve seen every emotional manipulation tactic in the book.”
The cat meowed—a small, polite sound that told me I was being unreasonable.
I lasted approximately forty-five seconds.
“Fine,” I muttered, opening the refrigerator. “But this is a one-time thing. Don’t get used to it.”
I’d stopped at the Boar’s Head Inn on my way up the mountain yesterday—a fancy resort where people who weren’t nursing broken hearts probably had lovely romantic getaways. I’d bought entirely too much expensive cheese, some prosciutto that cost more than my monthly gym membership, and a container of smoked salmon I’d planned to eat while feeling sorry for myself.
The cat could have the salmon.
I dumped it onto a plate—one of the cabin’s mismatched dishes that probably came from a thrift store—and set it on the floor. The cat approached with dignity, sniffed delicately, and began eating as if it were at a five-star restaurant.
I poured myself another bourbon and watched the cat eat, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness settle into my bones.
Ollie was probably with Roger right now. Probably in our—his—apartment in Chelsea, the one we’d decorated together with the throw pillows I’d obsessed over and the coffee table we’d found at that flea market in Brooklyn. They were probably laughing about me. About how uptight I was, how controlling, how I couldn’t just let things be spontaneous and fun.
He’s probably happier without me, I thought, and took another drink.
The cat finished eating and looked up at me with what might have been gratitude or might have been judgment. With cats, it was hard to tell.
Then it walked over and rubbed against my legs, purring loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire.
“Don’t get attached,” I told it, but my voice cracked on the last word. “I’m not keeping you. This isn’t... I can’t...”
The cat continued purring, weaving between my legs in figure-eights, leaving white fur on my black pants.
I sat down on the couch, bourbon in hand, and stared at the fire. The cat immediately jumped onto my lap, circled twice, and settled in like it had been doing this its entire life.
“I told you not to get attached,” I whispered, but I was already running my hand through its soft fur.
The cat purred louder.
